by Rich Horton
THE YEAR’S BEST
SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY:
2014 EDITION
RICH HORTON
For Mary Ann, again . . .
Copyright © 2014 by Rich Horton.
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Cover design by Stephen H. Segal & Sherin Nicole.
Ebook design by Neil Clarke.
All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors, and used here with their permission.
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Contents
Introduction, Rich Horton
Soulcatcher, James Patrick Kelly
Trafalgar and Josefina, Angélica Gorodischer
A Stranger from a Foreign Ship, Tom Purdom
Blanchefleur, Theodora Goss
Effigy Nights, Yoon Ha Lee
Such & Such Said to So & So, Maria Dahvana Headley
Grizzled Veterans of Many and Much, Robert Reed
Rosary and Goldenstar, Geoff Ryman
The Bees Her Heart, The Hive Her Belly, Benjanun Sriduangkaew
The Dragonslayer of Merebarton, K.J. Parker
The Oracle, Lavie Tidhar
Loss, with Chalk Diagrams, E. Lily Yu
Martyr’s Gem, C.S.E. Cooney
They Shall Salt the Earth with Seeds of Glass, Alaya Dawn Johnson
A Window or a Small Box, Jedediah Berry
Game of Chance, Carrie Vaughn
Live Arcade, Erik Amundsen
Social Services, Madeline Ashby
Found, Alex Dally MacFarlane
A Brief History of the Trans-Pacific Tunnel, Ken Liu
Ilse, Who Saw Clearly, E. Lily Yu
The End of the World as We know It, and We Feel Fine, Harry Turtledove
Killing Curses: A Caught-Heart Quest, Krista Hoeppner Leahy
Firebrand, Peter Watts
The Memory Book, Maureen McHugh
The Dead Sea-Bottom Scrolls, Howard Waldrop
A Fine Show on the Abyssal Plain, Karin Tidbeck
Out in the Dark, Linda Nagata
On the Origin of Song, Naim Kabir
Call Girl, Tang Fei
Paranormal Romance, Christopher Barzak
Town’s End, Yukimi Ogawa
The Discovered Country, Ian R. MacLeod
The Wildfires of Antarctica, Alan DeNiro
Kormak the Lucky, Eleanor Arnason
Biographies
Recommended Reading
Publication History
About the Editor
The Year in Fantasy and Science Fiction, 2014
Rich Horton
Non-Anglo Science Fiction
One of the more obvious recent trends in the field is an increasing embrace of sf from non-traditional sources, which is basically to say from non-English speaking countries. (Though we should remember a few countries with significant English speaking populations who are contributing as well, such as India and the Philippines.) This isn’t to say that sf from such places is a new thing—one of the first widely popular writers of what we’d call sf was Jules Verne, a Frenchman. The Soviet Union had a long tradition of fine sf (Arkady and Boris Strugatsky being perhaps the most famous practitioners), and one of the greatest SF writers of the 60s and 70s was the Pole Stanislaw Lem.
Attempts to bring short sf to the US market included Frederik Pohl’s short-lived 1960s magazine International SF, Donald Wollheim’s 1976 anthology The Best From the Rest of the World, and The Penguin Book of World Science Fiction (1986), edited by Sam Lundwall and Brian W. Aldiss. None of these really seemed to gain much traction. Foreign sf was hampered partly by the difficulty of arranging good translations, and partly by a sense that much of it was a bit behind the times relative to that from the US/UK/Canada/Australia sphere. I’m not sure how much of that was reality, how much an artifact of selection, and how much simply wrong.
It seems almost a truism to say that a form of literature devoted to “alien” worlds—often obsessed with creating different cultures—would benefit from points of view off the Anglophone axis. But it has taken, it seems to me, until very recent years for this to be much acted upon. By now, though, many people are well aware that, for example, China has a huge sf market. Anthologies like Ivor Hartmann’s AfroSF (2012) have introduced us to writers from Africa. From the Philippines, the series Philippine Speculative Fiction now runs to eight volumes of original stories (edited by a rotating group of folks including Dean Francis Alfar, Nikki Alfar, Vincent Michael Simbulan, Kate Osias and Alex Osias). Lavie Tidhar’s two Apex Book of World SF anthologies showcase stories from all over the world. All of these books features fresh, original, exciting sf and fantasy, and all en passant highlight the benefits of reading sf from potentially unfamiliar cultures. And I have only scratched the surface.
So it was with some delight, as this book came together, that I noticed that a lot of the stories I wanted to include were by non-American, non-British, etc. writers. Only two of the stories were originally published in other languages: Argentine writer Angélica Gorodischer’s “Trafalgar and Josefina” (translated by Amalia Gladhart) and Chinese writer Tang Fei’s “Call Girl” (translated by Ken Liu). But a number of other writers, who work at least part of the time in English, hail from non-Anglophone countries: Sweden’s Karin Tidbeck, Thailand’s Benjanun Sriduangkaew, and Japan’s Yukimi Ogawa. (And last year’s volume included two stories by one of the most popular newer writers, Aliette de Bodard, who was born in the US, grew up and still lives in France, and who is of Franco-Vietnamese extraction.) For that matter Theodora Goss, though she has been in the US for a long time, grew up in Hungary; and Lavie Tidhar, currently resident in the UK, grew up in Israel. (Mentioning Tidhar prompts me to cite both he and Ken Liu—also in this volume with a story of his own—for their yeoman work in bringing translated sf to the attention of English-language readers, including doing a lot of the translation themselves.)
What other trends can I find herein? Once again there are a number of stories in some way combining sf and fantasy tropes, some of which seem clearly enough to me sf (as with Benjanun Sriduangkaew’s very refreshingly strange piece), and others clearly enough fantasy (as with Eleanor Arnason’s characteristically matter of fact “Kormak the Lucky”). Perhaps even more evident is an increased delight in the simply strange—Sriduangkaew’s entire oeuvre to date revels in weirdness, and here in different ways the stories by Jedediah Berry, Alan DeNiro, Tang Fei, Naim Kabir, and Krista Hoeppner Leahy, are among their other virtues simply odd. To say nothing of the Angélica Gorodischer’s story, first published in Argentina in the 70s, part of a linked collection of similarly unusual stories that mix sf, fantasy, and the realistic (and indirectly political) quite without caring, and always very witty even when telling very dark stories.
As to news from the rest of the field, I have little to add. There didn’t seem to be any seismic changes in short fiction publishing—no major magazines perishing, for example. I will say that Trevor Quachri’s first year at the helm of Analog seemed very promising. Asimov’s, F&SF, and Interzone among the print magazines all had what I would call their standard year. Lightspeed (for which I must disclose I act as reprint editor), Clarkesworld, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and Strange Horizons—to me arguably the top four online mag
azines—also continued much as before. Apex, another fine online magazine, changed editors again: Lynne M. Thomas stepped down after two excellent years, to be succeeded by Sigrid Ellis.
On the anthology front there were excellent outings from reliable editors Ellen Datlow, Gardner Dozois (with George R.R. Martin), Jonathan Strahan and John Joseph Adams, and some good books from less familiar names—Lynne Thomas again (with Michael Damian Thomas and John Klima), Paula Guran, and also Mike Allen, whose fine anthology series Clockwork Phoenix returned for a fourth volume. I was also very pleased to see another magazine-like book from the MIT Technology Review, Twelve Tomorrows, edited by Stephen Cass, presenting twelve intriguing near-future SF stories, including “Firebrand” in this book.
On the novel front, the best I read from 2013 was Christopher Priest’s The Adjacent, a fascinating story of multiple people in different times, different timelines, even a different world, all somehow “adjacent,” I suppose, to their analogs elsewhere. Other than that (keeping in mind that I didn’t read nearly as many novels as deserved to be read) I was happiest with three first novels. Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice is intelligent sf set in a future interstellar empire, and deals with war, AI, and gender issues—and even zombies! (sort of)—very well. Sofia Samatar’s A Stranger in Olondria is a lovely lyrical story of an islander in love with books visiting the mainland, and getting unwittingly involved with political turmoil. (Both Leckie and Samatar have had stories in this series of anthologies.) And Chris Willrich’s The Scroll of Years is satisfying sword and sorcery about his ongoing characters, the lovers Persimmon Gaunt and Imago Bone, here in a sort of China-analog.
There were also excellent movies (most notably Her and Gravity); and of course A Game of Thrones continues to make waves on television. But for me the center of the field remains short fiction—and here are nearly three dozen of the best examples for your perusal.
Soulcatcher
James Patrick Kelly
After years of planning and scheming, of deals honest and not, of sleepless nights of rage and cool days of calculation, Klary’s moment arrives when xeni-Harvel Asher, the ambassador from the Four Worlds, enters her gallery.
As a concession to local xenophobia, the xeni is embodied as a human male. Of course, he is beautiful. Some liken the xeni to the faeries of Earth legend, their charisma so intoxicating that, at the merest nod, a groom will walk away from his new bride, a mother will abandon her infant. Is it telepathy? Pheromones? The lure of great wealth and power? No matter. Klary has steeled herself against the xeni’s insidious power. Ever since the Ambassador made planetfall, Klary has been on a regimen of emotion suppressants. Not that she really needs them. After xeni-Harvel Asher ruined her life, Klary has had just one emotion. No chemistry can defeat it.
Her hopeless assistant Elloran makes a fool of himself groveling before the xeni. Klary slips behind a display case protecting a cascading sculpture of lace and leather and spun sugar. She is content for now to study her prey. The xeni is slight, almost childlike, but he commands the room with eyes as big as Klary’s fists, a smile brimming with wide teeth. Slender hands emerge from the drooping sleeves of his midnight jacket. His fingers are delicate enough to pluck the strings of a harp—or a woman’s heart.
“Here at Hamashy’s Fine Textiles we have the best collection . . . ” Elloran is talking too fast.
“Yes, this one is sure you do.” Asher cuts him off. “This one would speak with the owner now?”
Which means it’s time. But when Klary steps from her hiding place, she sees that her plan is going hideously awry. Dear, beloved, lost Janary, clone sister of her sibling batch, has followed her abductor into her gallery.
Even though it has been fourteen years since they last saw each other, even though she has lost her name, her face, and her innocence, Janary knows her as her sister. How could she not? Her frightened stare pricks Klary’s shriveled heart. All is lost. Yes, a reunion was part of her plan, but that was for later. After this was over. Will she give Klary up? Can Janary even guess what her sister plans to do? But there is no turning back.
“Ambassador.” Klary steps forward and bows. “You honor me. I am Klary Hamashy.” Despite the suppressants, she braces herself against the xeni’s fierce regard. It’s like leaning into a headwind. “Welcome, sir.”
Xeni-Harvel Asher inclines his head. “This one has heard tell of the local rug merchant, Friend Klary.” She is not sure whether he intends this as a slight. Hamashy Gallery sells native and off-world carpets, yes, but it’s no rug shop. Klary is too busy trying not to goggle at Janary to take offense. She has not changed since the xeni lured her away from their ancestral commune. Bitter years have aged Klary and she has taken steps to smudge her appearance, but Janary is still as striking as Klary once was. She has the rust-brown curls framing pale features of their genetic line. She wears a high-necked white gown, perhaps to satisfy some ancient bridal fetish. Her sister shows no signs of anger or sadness as she shies behind the Ambassador, as if she is afraid of Klary. Has she accepted her humiliation? Embraced it? Unthinkable. Klary tries to imagine herself in Janary’s place as her sister catches up the decorative glass chain that dangles from the choker around her neck.
“What?” Asher notices her. “She won’t hurt you.”
Without a word, Janary presses the end of her chain into his hand.
“One never knows what bothers the pet.” Xeni-Harvel Asher does not apologize. “It’s been skittish today.”
Klary wants to yank the chain away, crush it in her bare hand until shards of broken glass bite her. “Not to worry,” she says. She addresses the xeni, not her sister. “She is safe in this place.”
“A pleasant enough shop.” He gestures at the racks and display cases, the hangings and the shelves that line the walls. “Might one find a present for a good friend here? A unique present, perhaps?”
Klary’s smile is tight. She knows why the xeni is here. Klary has paid an outrageous price to bait the trap, has discreetly encouraged the rumors about her illegal acquisition. But she must not rush; there is a scene to play before the final act. “Let me show you my treasures.” She tries to gesture for Elloran to peel Janary away, but her assistant is useless. Tomorrow Klary will fire him—if there is a tomorrow.
The xeni is not impressed with the life-sized nylon nudes wrapped around moveable skeletons nor does he appreciate the remarkable properties of nylon. “It’s semi-translucent,” says Klary, “so several layers of differently colored nylon produce the subtle skin tones. See how the artist’s needle modeling suggests wrinkles about the eyes?” Nor does he care for bowls made of taut coiled snuro or the hanging of cloth beads arrayed on glow-wires. He passes Tuktuk’s mixed-media tensioned fabric sculptures without comment. Klary stubbornly describes a French tapestry from the twenty-second century. “Notice the classic border filled with floral bouquets and architectural scrollwork, around very fine floating landscape scenes from old Earth. Depictions of Oriental life with courtiers seated on motorcycles, and see here, plants, birds, zombies . . . ” But Asher has already moved on, past an area carpet in the Tabriz style by master weaver Kumanen and the chain mail business suits; Klary hurries to catch up.
He flips through Fovian rugs hanging on a telescoping display like they were pages of a book he’s deciding not to read. “One wants something special for a special friend,” he says. Then he leans close—too close—and for a second his huge black eyes erase all Klary’s worries about her ruined plans. In that instant of domination, Klary feels something for her sister that she has never felt.
Envy.
“There is more.” She twitches free of the xeni, gathers herself. “Work not yet priced. Items I had not intended to sell.”
“Keep the best for yourself. A strategy to live by.” He chuckles. “Still, one might be interested to see, if not to buy.”
“Of course, Ambassador. Although it might be best if your companion stayed with Elloran.” She raises her voice to rouse th
e bedazzled Elloran. “There may still be a way to salvage the plan, but Janary must not see what is to come.”
“No.” Janary is trembling.
The xeni glances over his shoulder, as if he has forgotten that she is following them. ”You’ve provoked the pet to speech, Friend Klary.” He gives her chain a tug and she doubles over, eyes downcast. “It’s not often so bold in public.”
“Want . . . ” Her voice grates from disuse. “ . . . to come.” She raises her eyes just enough to meet Klary’s horrified gaze.
“One is at a loss to explain this behavior.”
Worried lest the xeni punish her, Klary babbles. “It’s fine. Not a problem, I just thought she . . . it would be more comfortable out here. I live here, you see, and my rooms are rather cluttered just now.” She gestures for them to follow and, when the xeni hesitates, she almost makes the mistake of putting a hand on the ambassador’s shoulder to steer him toward the rear of the gallery. “Please,” she says. “It would be my pleasure. Elloran, you can close up and go home.” The fewer witnesses the better. “Elloran.”
“Most accommodating, Friend Klary.” Asher lets Janary’s chain go slack and then gives it a tinkling shake to get her moving. “Be assured that the pet will be on a short leash.”
Klary has four rooms at the back of the gallery: bedroom, bath, galley kitchen and the office where she eats and connects. The office is half again as big as all the other rooms combined. Klary had planned for this visit and has removed all traces of her sister clones, their long-dead first, and the world she lost when the family chose her to retrieve Janary. She has replaced mementos of that former life with pix of men she has never met. Clothes they might have worn hang in her closet. There is an artful scatter of presents she might have given or received had she dared intimacy: a vase filled with the latest airflowers, a reproduction ship’s clock, a set of magma tiles that serve as trivets, kites and crystal and antique hubcaps. But what draws Asher’s attention is the art Klary has kept for herself. The xeni points at a chair and Janary sits. He coils the glass chain on her lap and she stares down at it glumly as if to read her fortune. Then he strides about the room inspecting the needle lace hamaca and Ringwell’s blood-stained War Quilt and Xary Merry Kari’s Wrapped Dog. He pauses in front of Kumanen’s Tabriz carpet, which hangs beside the bedroom door. “But you have this one hanging in the gallery,” he says.